


waves over deeper waters

by nagia



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Celibate Aromantic Relationship, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, Other, Pining, Power Imbalance, Rite of Tranquility, Tranquil Surana
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through the fog of suspicion, amidst whispers of rebellion, the woman Cullen might have loved is made Tranquil, a fate she would have called worse than death.  Now, though, she seems determined — in her own, emotionless way — to save him, if not from the world's ills, then from himself.</p><p><i>There is a worm at the heart of the tower;</i><br/><i>that is why it will not stand.</i><br/>— Neil Gaiman, "Instructions"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cheloya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/gifts).
  * Inspired by [under pressure precious things can break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3577821) by [nagia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia). 



> This is all Cheloya's fault, because she asked for it. (No. She did. Specifically.) Ten thousand thanks, as always, to Leviathanmirror for letting me bombard her with bits of fic, and to Rhion, for letting me do the same.
> 
> The warnings are in the additional tags, but there is drug abuse (in addition to the required addiction) and a serious power imbalance in all aspects of the relationship throughout the body of the fic. This fic will span all twelve to fifteen years of the known Dragon Age timeline.

* * *

part one: ferelden

* * *

one.

The flagstones echo under his steps, and his mail chimes. Cullen knows he's moving slightly too quickly, but there's no one about to see. Between the minor illness the Templars have been passing about the barracks and the heavy constitutional Knight-Captain Hadley has scheduled him for in the morning, he wants nothing more than his bed. Being responsible for the new arrivals had seemed an excellent shift, at least at first — now, after the third sleep disturbance this week, he understands why others of the Order had snickered at his assignment.

Worse yet, his feelings for the apprentice also responsible for the new arrivals are patently clear, even to children.

He stops, briefly, when he hears Knight-Commander Greagoir's voice, saying: "I trust his word in this case no better than you do, but Maker, Irving, why would he lie? Will you sign, or shall she meet the same end as — wonderful, another interruption."

Cullen knocks on the doorframe, then salutes as he enters. "Knight-Commander. Just reporting on a minor nighttime disturbance."

The Knight-Commander sighs. "Garahel again, I take it?"

"Yes, ser."

"Very well. Duly noted." Greagoir looks to the First Enchanter, a significant sort of look, and then he says, "Dismissed, Templar Cullen. And next time you stir from the barracks in full armor, take your sword."

"Yes, ser," Cullen says, saluting again.

He thinks little of the conversation. The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter are always discussing Circle business. Should it become any of his, he'll be informed.

* * *

two.

A little over a week later, Evelyn wakes him, reporting a disturbance in the apprentice quarters.

"Knight-Captain wants all arms mustered to the first floor," Evelyn says. The moon rises outside the window behind her, and he's disoriented, as he often is upon waking. It's hard to remember a time when it didn't happen to him, but ever since his Vigil — does he seek to fool himself? Ever since his first Philtre — he's had difficulty shaking sleep.

Still, he sleeps with his arming coat laid by. He doesn't even have trouble with the breastplate's buckles; his actions are as rote as the turning of a waterwheel.

He follows Evelyn and a few other Templars down the stairs at a full run, and bursts into the apprentice quarters to see one of the usual troublemakers in fine fettle.

Dark hair. The same sallow skin seen on the naturally white apprentices. Gray eyes and a heart-shaped face. Familiar, Cullen thinks, until the actual shouted words reach him and he realises: oh, Sens's friend. Jowan.

The suspected maleficar.

"Where did she go? I know you dragged her out of here after curfew, and she's not back yet."

One of the other apprentices says, in a gentle tone, "I'm sure they've just taken her for her Harrowing, Jowan."

But another apprentice points out, "They don't take us after curfew. Once night's called, you're in or you're out."

Except, Cullen realizes like the slow slide of cold water down his back, for the Rite of Tranquility. Once the writ is signed, the Knight-Commander will remove the offending apprentice from wherever they happen to be, at whatever time is most convenient to him.

And why isn't Sens here, trying to silence Jowan? Who, indeed, would Jowan shout about, if not Sens?

But he serves the Chantry and the Maker, and can imagine no better life. He does his duty.

He says, "Apprentice. Calm down and return to your bed."

* * *

three.

Sens Surana does not return to the apprentice quarters. It would have taken Cullen three days or so to notice her absence there, did he not see her the following morning. Her posture is more relaxed than he's ever seen it, and he wonders if perhaps she spent the night away from her bed, engaged in some dalliance. She might well have been in the mage quarters; Harrowed mages are permitted some measure of privacy, and an Enchanter's... guest might be permitted to stay if the dormitory was shut for the night.

And then she turns her head in his direction, and Cullen drops the mug of strong tea he'd been lifting to his mouth.

Her face is slack, lips slightly parted in an expression of uncaring ease he has never once seen on her face. The eyes that had glittered so fiercely are now hollow and glassy, even from a distance.

And above it all, on her forehead, burns the lyrium brand.

Cullen wipes up the tea and excuses himself to the nearest privy closet, where he finds, once he's lost his breakfast, that he still has dinner left to heave up. Even once his dinner is gone, his stomach still clenches and tries to force itself up his throat.

He should have been more curious. He should have asked questions, or been there to protect her from this. He's been half in love with her for some months now, and he's failed her so utterly she might as well be dead.

* * *

four.

Knight-Commander Greagoir does not transfer her. He does remove Cullen from his position in the creche, after a week of begging. He knows the children need him, that transferring himself does them no good when they've just lost one stable adult figure.

And yet he feels ill every time he passes by the door. Dreads answering, yet again, what has happened to Apprentice Surana, why she speaks so strangely, why she does not give hugs or sweets before bedtime any longer. How is he to explain the Rite of Tranquility?

From what he gathers, the Tranquil Sens is put to work in the solarium, tending the hothouse plants, and assists the Formari as an herbalist rather than crafting enchantments. He avoids the Formari where possible and the solarium at all costs.

He actually trades a shift in the solarium for one scrubbing pans in the kitchen. This brings down Hadley's wrath — pan-scrubbing is a time honored punishment in Kinloch Hold, and Cullen has intervened to rescue a lyrium peddler — but he can't bring himself to care, even when he's kneeling on a filthy back stair with a scrub brush in hand. Anything, to keep from having to see her. Having to hear her speak in that genuinely emotionless, sometimes uncomprehending tone he's heard all the Tranquil use.

Hadley is, at least, not cruel enough to make him serve the patrol he'd tried to avoid.

* * *

five.

Carroll comes to find him, one evening.

"Had's worried about you," he says, while Cullen scrubs the third stair on the back walk. The grime is so thick he'll be at this stair another day or so, and once it's done, only forty-four to go. If he plays this right, he'll never see another mage until the Knight-Commander actually reads and responds to his transfer request.

"That why he gave me such light duty?" Cullen dips the brush in his bucket of water — the bucket itself has been enchanted with fire runes; the water stays pleasantly scalding and he tries not to think about which Tranquil painstakingly took lyrium to a scrub bucket.

"Everyone knows how you felt about her."

That leaves him light-headed with despair. The blood in his veins runs thin and cold as ice water, and he swears he feels his pulse turn wild.

"Don't, Carroll."

"She was fit," Carroll says. "Bit of a spitfire, but I can see how you'd like that in a woman. Nobody blames you for it, Col."

"We're not friends, Caroll; don't shorten my name. And Maker's breath, can we talk about something else? Anything else?"

"Listen, you need to take your mind off it," Carroll says, and what has Cullen's life come to that Carroll sounds bloody reasonable?

Carroll holds out a vial filled with blue powder and a glass tube.

"I'm not cutting extra lyrium in the middle of scrubbing stairs," Cullen says, trying to hold onto what's left of his own mind. But the grade is so pure he can hear the philtre sing, even from this far away, and he wants it so much he has to swallow against the new wetness in his mouth.

He drops the scrub brush into the bucket and strips his hide gloves.

"Wouldn't do it off this floor," Carroll advises, and Cullen agrees.

"Did you bring a tray?"

Carroll grins, and produces a small metal disc. Not a great surface, really, but it's large enough to cut a pair of doses on, and it's flat. It'll do.

This is the first time he's ever taken lyrium outside of an approved dose, and the first time he's dosed socially, as well. His hands shake as he uncorks the vial.

The lyrium burns as he inhales, practically tearing his sinuses to bits, but at least the headache and the tremors are gone. And Sens? Maker, with the way the world practically sings around him, with all these flaming stairs to scrub, why should she bother him at all?

* * *

six.

The great thing about lyrium is it sticks in the blood, and sometimes apparently passes into the brain again, even days later. He cut himself and Carroll such huge doses that even four days after, he's still occasionally struck by these strange bubbles of euphoria, where nothing hurts and everything sings. He's starting to understand why the peddlers need it so badly.

He's in the midst of one such ephemeral, effervescent moment of elation that he runs into Sens.

Literally. He collides with her in the third floor hall, on his way back to his quarters. She bounces away, ragdoll like, and it's instinct to reach out and steady a tumbling mage.

The dark-haired elf turns to face him, and then he's staring down at Sens, and his bubble of pleasure pops. Her glassy eyes seem to loll as she moves, their focus moving with her head, falling half-closed as she tips her head back to look at him. She's in as much control of her eyes, he thinks, as a porcelain doll might be.

"Ser Cullen," she intones without feeling. "You prevented me from falling."

"I, uh," sweet Maker, what is he even supposed to…? "Yes. I did." He almost checks her over to see if he's bruised her somehow, but stops himself. If she were injured, she would inform him.

"Thank you." She blinks, and then adds, in a tone of very dim curiosity, "We knew each other before I was made Tranquil. I have not seen you since."

"I... thought that was best."

"Apprentice Jowan also prefers not to see me," she says. She doesn't sound hurt by it, nor accusing, but he feels like the worst kind of cad. He's tossed her away simply because she makes him uncomfortable.

He tells her, "I'm sorry," and then asks, slow and careful, "Does it... hurt?"

"No," she says. "I am not permitted to speak of the Rite, but the brand has healed over. I see things very clearly now. I also see that I am in no position to argue. I do not particularly wish to die, and that will be the next punishment."

She doesn't wish to die. That's the best she can say about her life: she doesn't much wish to end it. His stomach roils in protest. He wants to ask where her passions have gone, but he knows the answer. Knocked right out of her by the branding iron.

"Do you still look out the windows at night?"

She'd told him, once, that she was imagining her home, but she'd never said where that might be. He could ask her, now, and she'd probably tell him, but it feels like cheating.

"There is no reason to do so, and your fellow knights are very concerned with the safety of the Tranquil. I am escorted to my bed personally each night." A pause, and then Sens adds with the same disarming frankness she's been using since they met, though with considerably less hidden emotion, "Sometimes my escorts choose not to leave."

If she tosses out another detail like that, he will absolutely be sick. Right here. He takes deep, controlled breaths to try and settle his stomach.

"I see," he says. "I'm... sorry." It's utterly inadequate. He's lightheaded again, and not from the lyrium. "Sens, I apologize, but I should return to my quarters before my curfew is called. I'm already on one punishment duty."

She stands aside, but as he passes her, she says, softer, "None of the others call me by my name. Thank you. I believe I prefer it."

He digs his coinpurse from his footlocker and heads straight for Carroll's bunk.

"The lyrium," he says, when Carroll looks up from the strange geometric model he's making out of paper. "How much for more?"

* * *

seven.

Five days after that, Knight-Captain Hadley hauls him into the office he shares with Lieutenant Brennan. Cullen salutes, but doesn't sit until Hadley points at the chair in front of his desk. The ducking stool, he's heard it jokingly called by the others. They were clearly whistling in the dark, because the prospect of sitting there makes him have to hide a shiver.

Lieutenant Brennan stands from his desk and salutes before he makes for the door. It swings shut softly behind him, well-oiled, and Cullen feels his stomach drop somewhere around his ankles.

This is disciplinary, then.

"You are aware," Hadley says, quiet, "of the Order's policy — and the Knight Commander's own policy — on excess lyrium use?"

In a word, it's _don't_. In a handful more, it's _don't, or you'll be drummed out_.

"I — yes. I'm aware."

Hadley sighs and leans back in his chair. He has the startling blue eyes found mostly in the north of Ferelden, and those eyes settle on Cullen now as he considers.

"You've never been a disciplinary problem before. Maker's breath, Cullen, I know you want to serve. You're here because you believe in the cause, and we need men like you in the Circles."

"Ser," Cullen says, awaiting more.

"I understand you're upset about Surana. We all get attached to one or two who don't make it," he says, with all the ease of a man who has surely never been in love with a woman who was made bloody fucking _Tranquil_. "But you can't avoid her, and you sure as horses shit can't try to drown your feelings in lyrium. That's the way to addling yourself long before your time, and neither the Knight-Commander nor I will have it."

Again, Cullen says, "Ser."

"I'm docking your ration for the rest of the month. You'll be on quarter doses, and you will not go in search of more, is that understood?"

"I understand, ser."

Hadley looks at him for a long moment, searching his face. Hadley's own face is broad-featured and open, almost guileless, and he looks genuinely concerned for Cullen's wellbeing. He also doesn't look like he thinks there's much hope of a real solution here.

"Dismissed, Templar," he says, at last.

Cullen stands and salutes, but before he reaches the door, he asks, "I take it I'm not to be transferred?"

"Not at this time, Templar," Hadley says. "I know you must think us cruel, but going to another Circle — or even a Chantry, where you'd only be wasted — won't fix this. You'll just continue as you've begun: get attached to the Circle spitfire, watch her fail and be made Tranquil, or watch her fail a Harrowing, react badly, and move to another Circle."

"I see," Cullen says. Of course they think this is the kindest option in the long run. They think they can break him of some lamentable habit of attachment.

Maybe they're right. Maybe it was only an infatuation. Maybe he'd only go through this all again, somewhere else.

Cullen salutes again, and then opens the door. He doesn't shut it.

* * *

eight.

The rest of the month is agony. He fevers and sweats and has vivid horrors in place of dreams. He has the shakes in the morning and the shits at night, and he's queasy during daylight. His blood seems too thin in his veins, and his ears buzz from the lack of the song, and the quarter doses he takes don't seem to make much of a dent.

Still, even though he spends hours clenching his fists and drawing in breaths that shudder and feel like knives to the insides of his lungs, he does not seek out Carroll or any of the other lyrium peddlers.

He forces himself not to avoid Sens, and discovers that though her emotional reactions have been removed entirely or, where they could not be removed, dampened, she is not docile or biddable. She still formulates opinions — hypotheses, he supposes — based on facts, and cannot be swayed from them except with logic. And, unlike most Tranquil he's been forced to interact with, Sens' position on commands — especially new ones, when she's already engaged in a task — seems to default to 'no,' or at least 'persuade me.'

It makes him feel a little better about this whole awful situation, at least.

He is almost pathetically grateful at the start of the next month, when Hadley gives him his full dose.

* * *

nine.

The months slip away, into seasons.

Cullen finishes the back stair project with only one interruption from Carroll. After that, he resumes his regular patrols, though he does not take over duties within the creche.

He ceases needing to actively avoid Sens, and instead seeks her out at times. Neither her face nor her voice ever show any eagerness to see or speak to him, but she stops whatever she is doing. He doesn't know much about the Tranquil, but he does know that their tremendous focus seems to drive them to stay occupied. That Sens would cease an occupation just to talk to him —

Well. She apparently prioritizes his friendship over her tasks, or perhaps she's been instructed to be as personable as possible should people speak to her.

Eventually, he can't help thinking back to that first disarmingly frank conversation, the first time he'd seen her after she was made Tranquil.

One night, when Sens has paused from chopping spindleweed to look at him and he has half an hour until curfew, Cullen asks, "Sens, who escorts you to the Tranquil quarters?"

Sens considers this for several long moments before at last she says, "It varies. There seems to be a rotating cast."

She's either been cautioned against naming names, or has some reason not to do so. She may think he's just illogical enough to go call them out, or some similar madness. There's no telling.

He sighs. "And do they still… stay?"

"Yes." She says it tonelessly and without hesitation.

"Do you wish them to?"

That question, she greets with silence. There is a long, long pause, and then she looks down at the spindleweed she'd been chopping. She picks up the knife and looks at it, then sets it back down.

After a full silent minute or two, she says, "I do not know."

He longs to snap, to point out that it was a simple question. And yet he knows better. Asking a Tranquil about what they want is tricky — they don't, as a rule, want much of anything, except to be useful and continue living. They do form preferences, though. They're generally very vague, from what he gathers, and only dimly felt.

Sens pauses, and eventually continues, "Sex with them satisfies a physical need, but I do not find them preferable company."

"Would you prefer if I escorted you?"

Another brief pause, in which Sens turns to look at him. After a moment, she says, "You are superior company."

And so he assumes another duty: escorting Sens to her quarters. He sees her to her bed, but never finds an excuse to linger there. Instead, he always retreats, perhaps hastily. Still, there are nights he can't quite shake the dizzying, ill-conceived, thoroughly ridiculous joy he takes in her stated preference for him.

* * *

ten.

Disturbing reports filter in from the south. Livestock mutilated, people carried off. Bands of Darkspawn sighted around Lothering. The King begins to gather his armies, and the Senior Enchanters openly wonder if he will formally request the assistance of the Circle, as is his right.

If either the First Enchanter or the Knight-Commander have an opinion on the idea, they keep it to themselves.

As there's nothing he can do about any of it, he puts it entirely from his mind. At least until the request arrives: the Fereldan army wants the support of the senior mages and the Formari. Greagoir permits both mages and Tranquil to volunteer.

Cullen stands watch in the Great Hall as people step forward. Senior Enchanters Wynne, Uldred, Alim, Kallian, Eirich, with a cadre of enchanters. And then he can only stand still and silent as he watches the Tranquil tilt their heads and begin to step forward as well.

Body after body, Tranquil after Tranquil, and he can only pray that Sens remains. He doesn't like the thought of her barely supervised in a camp full of soldiers. Any Templars who go with the Circle's volunteers will keep their eyes on the mages, not the safety of the Formari, who are technically free to come and go at will.

But Sens doesn't step forward. He sees her turn, her hollow green gaze finding both him and Jowan, and though the Tranquil next to her volunteers, she does not.

Surely it is foolish to be relieved, but he is.

* * *

eleven.

"Templars Cullen, Rickon, Drass, and Havard," Knight-Captain Hadley snaps as he steps into the Great Hall.

They all salute. Hadley looks furious about something, and the way he ignores the mages assembled in the Great Hall makes it clear something serious is happening.

Cullen shifts where he stands. He turns his gaze on the other Templars called; Drass is the only other Templar not wearing his helmet, and his expression is bored.

"You're with the Knight-Commander and me. We're preparing for a situation in the Apprentice Hall."

Not Jowan again, Cullen hopes.

He follows the Knight-Captain and the others down the flights of stairs, criss-crossing the Tower until they reach the Apprentice Hall. The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter have already gathered there.

The First Enchanter seems both angry and bitterly amused at something. Is he playing some jest at the Chantry's expense?

"And now?" Drass asks, voice low.

Hadley looks around the Hall and then says, equally low, "We wait. Swords at ready."

Cullen reaches, instinctive, for the grip of his greatsword. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rickon reach for his daggers.

And then the door to the basement opens, and Jowan steps out. At his side is the Chantry initiate, and behind them is one of the newly Harrowed mages. Cullen feels his stomach swoop and flop at the sight.

There is no reason Cullen can name for an apprentice, an initiate, and a mage to enter the basement. Maker, there's a second door, locked with a password and some kind of mana-sensitive ward, just within. They should not have been able to pass.

And yet the initiate is covered in blood. It's splattered onto the new Harrowed mage, as well. Jowan, in the front, is the only clean-looking conspirator, and Cullen finds this deeply suspicious.

"It seems you were right, Irving," Greagoir says, voice harsh with surprise and anger. "An initiate conspiring with a maleficar. I'm disappointed, Lily." A pause, and then, he says, "She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall, then. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished. And you, Amell, newly Harrowed and already flouting the rules."

"This isn't what it seems," Amell says. His voice is soft, but confident, and Cullen is briefly reminded of Sens, before she was made Tranquil.

"Indeed," Irving says, with a chuckle. "He is here under my orders, Greagoir. I take full responsibility for his actions."

Jowan's eyes widen. His entire body tenses, before he turns on Amell. "You led me into a trap?"

"I had no choice," Amell says, and doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. "You'd have done the same." A contemptuous glance at Greagoir and the assembled Templars, and Amell adds, "You and I both know what happens to the disobedient or the rebellious."

Cullen should be angry at the insult, at the reference to Sens. But he can't bring himself to; he's mostly just incredulous that Amell believes he could be made Tranquil after passing his Harrowing. It's against Chantry law.

Greagoir, though, snaps, "Enough! As Knight-Commander of the Templars here assembled, I sentence this maleficar to death. As for the initiate who has scorned the Chantry and her vows, let the warden of the Aeonar decide her fate."

"T-the mages' prison," Lily gasps, drawing back. "Please, anything but —"

And Jowan's expression hardens. There's a brief moment where Cullen's tongue buzzes, deep in the back of his mouth, as Jowan gathers mana to himself, but then the apprentice pulls a small, thin knife from his sleeve. Useless as a weapon, especially against men in plate, but it bites easily into his own pale, unblemished skin.

"I won't let you touch her," he shouts, and red drips, and the world goes mad.

Cullen can feel himself being knocked back. It's like a dozen weights have pressed themselves to his chest, to his hands, to his knees. He tries to look up, but the act makes him dizzy. He tastes blood in his mouth, and there's a sharp pain in his tongue. Or maybe his lips. Everything throbs too much to tell. He can't rise, no matter how he tries. He can't seem to move at all; the weight of the malefaction makes it hard even to breathe.

There's a conversation, however brief, but it all sounds like buzzing to Cullen. He can only watch as Lily backs away from the maleficar, and Jowan makes his escape. Cullen pities Bran and Eswin, by the door. Hopefully they'll survive their encounter.

Slowly, he manages to stand, and the world starts making sense again.

The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter are arguing. Knight-Captain Hadley signals him to head to the Entrance Hall, so Cullen goes.

Later, he hears Greagoir has placed Amell in solitary, to await judgment until his mentor, Senior Enchanter Uldred, returns.

As it is, he finds Bran and Eswin alive, though Eswin has been badly hurt for attempting to stop the maleficar. He strips the other Templar's cuirass, attempting to relieve some of the pressure on his lungs.

Eswin draws in deep, rattling breaths, and Cullen hates the maleficar for what he's done. And now, knowing that Sens was his best friend, he has to wonder: was she one, too? Is that why she was made Tranquil?

* * *

twelve.

It takes him a few hours to work up the courage to go see her about it. By the time he does, he finds that several apprentices or Templars have already informed her of Amell's fate and Jowan's actions. And, naturally, they've done it in successively crueller ways, all in an attempt to draw a reaction from her.

He can't bring himself to ask what she knew until they're standing beside her bed.

Sens looks up at him and tilts her head. Her voice is only mildly curious as she asks, "Do you intend to linger?"

"W-what? Sens, no! I would never… I would never harm you in such a fashion."

She stares at him. "It fulfills a physical need."

"That's not the point, Sens; it's a violation of my vows to protect you." Cullen sighs. "No, I… I wanted to ask you something."

Sens seats herself on her bed, drawing up her skirt to unlace her boots. Cullen watches, because he has nowhere else to look, and hates himself for noticing how delicate her ankles are.

"I did not know that Jowan was a blood mage," she tells him, evenly. "Nor did I know any blood magic when I was rendered Tranquil."

"Then...?" He can't ask it. Can't demand 'why' of her the way he wants to demand it of Greagoir.

She answers anyway. "Senior Enchanter Uldred claimed otherwise, and the First Enchanter was unable or unwilling to overrule him."

He feels ill, and yet cannot help wondering why Uldred would lie about such a serious matter. What purpose could it serve? And yet, why would Sens lie, now? She has already been made Tranquil. What use in saying she wasn't a maleficar if she was? Is she just trying to play him? But she wouldn't benefit by it — not even emotionally.

None of it makes sense. He bids her good night and turns, fleeing the room before she can unlace her Formari robes.

* * *

thirteen.

Days pass, and turn into weeks. And slowly, the reports trickle in. The mages have little concept of what, precisely, this might mean for them — they've been too well-insulated, too isolated; few of them have any particular personal loyalty to Ferelden — but the news creates shivers of fear amongst his brethren in the barracks.

An army lost at Ostagar. A king dead, and Teyrn Loghain on a retreat to Denerim. The Bann of Rainesfere in fel wrath at the death of King Cailan, and naught but resounding silence from Eamon, Arl of Redcliffe. Silence, too, from the Teyrnir of Highever, with the Couslands slain by their vassals, the Howes of Amaranthine, for betraying the nation to the Orlesians.

None of that can be good. Cullen doesn't much care for politics, nor has he ever needed to. The Rutherfords have mustered to the same Bann for generations, and it's honestly un-Fereldan to play mad, intricate games over the throne. But even he can see that when all these dark clouds break, Ferelden will face a civil war at the same time as a Blight.

Templars and mages alike welcome back the folk they'd sent to Ostagar, but there are so few. There's a scattering of people — all of them, Cullen can't help but note, Templars or mages — and then a steady trickle. Senior Enchanter Uldred arrives some two weeks after the ill news, still badly wounded, and is bedridden for days. Senior Enchanter Wynne, who runs the infirmary and excels at healing magic, has not yet returned.

In fact, Uldred is the only Senior who survived Ostagar to make their way back to the Tower.

Sens seems to maintain some sense of spite, or perhaps a sense of justice. Uldred's distaste for the Tranquil is well known in the Tower, and Sens, as a skilled herbalist, sits at his bedside with bandages and potions and herbs.

Uldred curses her whenever he has the breath for it, but that isn't often. She gives no sign of noticing or caring — Cullen supposes that as far as she's concerned, Uldred has already inflicted the worst possible insult on her. He doesn't dare ask, though; he might be wrong, and she might answer.

The days pass in a hush of whispered fears. Knight-Captain Hadley bans political predictions from the barracks, but not even Eswin can keep from guessing. Cullen both longs to know something, anything, for sure and tries not to listen; there's precious little any of them can do about it from within the Tower.

The minute Uldred can stand on his own, he calls for a meeting. The Harrowed mages and more senior Templars gather in the Great Hall, on the third floor. As no one stops Formari from doing as they like, the Tranquil in the Tower also attend. Cullen attends because he'd been patrolling the third floor anyway.

And there, Uldred confirms much of what they've already heard. The army lost — the King betrayed by the Grey Wardens — and Bann Teagan wrongfully blaming Teyrn Loghain, who in turn accuses Bann Teagan of treason. Highever, under the rule of the Howes, throwing for Loghain, and Redcliffe silent.

"If it comes to war, the Circle of Magi," Uldred says, his usually soft-spoken voice echoing off the stone of the Great Hall, "should support the Teyrn. He is the Hero of River Dane, and one of the only veteran generals left in the nation. He has by now declared himself Regent, and surely the Maker will reward us for service to the rightful ruler."

Regent! Cullen can scarce believe the words coming out of Uldred's mouth. The other Templars all look as shocked as he feels, and what senior mages remain all look taken aback.

After a pause, Uldred adds, "And surely the rightful ruler will reward us himself, for any aid we can give him."

This, at least, seems to sway the less senior mages, who are mostly Libertarians — another word, Cullen has thought for some two years now, for 'pitiable fool' — though the Templars and more senior mages are all doubtful.

And it's at that moment, that Drass, who'd been stationed on the first floor, enters the Great Hall, clearly having run all the way. He's out of breath, and Cullen has to blink back surprise; Drass is first in attitude problems, and has never hurried for anything if he wasn't in direct sight of the Knight-Commander or Knight-Captain Hadley.

"Senior Enchanters Wynne and Alim have returned," Drass says, and then adds, "and they say Teyrn Loghain betrayed the King!"

There's uproar, after that. Even Templars are shouting, though mostly they shout for silence at the mages, who — predictably — ignore them in favor of either yelling at Drass or trying to be heard over the rising din.

First Enchanter Irving holds up one hand, and as one, the voices cease.

"Give us their news, young knight," he rasps.

Drass looks about the Hall, then nods. He draws in a breath, and tells them all: "Wynne and Alim say there was a signal. Loghain ignored it, and retreated instead of rallying to the King. The Grey Wardens were in King Cailan's vanguard, and perished on the field, defending him."

As one, the assembly all turn to stare at Uldred. Cullen can see the hard expressions on the faces of the gathered mages. If there's one thing the assembly hates more than being virtually imprisoned, it's being lied to by one of their own.

"His Majesty over-extended his position, and the Warden recruits lit the signal too late," Uldred says, but his voice is as thin as that excuse.

Cullen can feel the burn of anger beginning in his stomach, like the spot of yellow that lights kindling. Everywhere in the Hall he looks, he sees the same sentiment, at least among the mages and Templars. The Tranquil all simply stare at Uldred with considering expressions.

"To leave the rightful king to die," the Head of the Kinloch Hold Formari says, "is an act of high treason."

Uldred's gaze flicks between the Formari and the other mages, then to the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter.

"None of that," Senior Enchanter Torrin says in a calm, quiet voice that nonetheless carries all the finality Cullen's ever heard a mage use, "makes it sound as though we should support him."

"We can hardly call a regent who achieved his place through treason the 'rightful ruler.'" This from one of the other Enchanters.

One of the Tranquil standing next to Sens says, "You attempted deceit. You would not have attempted deceit without some machination in place."

And even Sens joins in the condemnation, with her clear, toneless voice, slow and melodic in a way Cullen finds horrifying down to the bone: "This is the second time he has deceived the Circle. This must not be permitted."

Both the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander Greagoir are now staring at Uldred, who looks, to Cullen, like some frightened, cornered creature. And yet no mage is more dangerous, he knows, than at such moments. That's when they turn to blood magic, or demons, or start flinging around their most destructive spells. He gathers his own righteous power around him, preparing to Smite, and sees several other Templars do the same, from reflex.

"Very well," Uldred says. "The Circle has made its decision, foolish as it may be. Adjourn the meeting, Irving, and I will return to my —"

"No," First Enchanter Irving says, and though his voice is raspy, that one word booms. It echoes off the stone. The rest of what he says, though, does not. "You have deceived this assembly, Uldred, and before, deceived me personally. The assembled will have answers from you."

Uldred straightens. He looks the First Enchanter in the eye, suddenly no longer cornered, and says, "I had thought it might come to this. Templars, if you value your lives, you will retreat."

Rather than retreat, the assembled knights begin to edge into combat positions, reaching for bows or daggers or swords. Cullen feels his fingers close over the leather-wrapped hilt of his greatsword.

"Templars, hold steady," Greagoir snaps.

"I do wish this hadn't been necessary," is all Uldred says, and suddenly lightning is gathering in the room. The Knight-Captain Smites it, but immediately after, another mage starts a similar spell, and somebody else casts something that makes the ground shake.

Cullen reflexively Smites the ground just beneath him, even as he widens his stance to maintain balance, creating a small space where the floor isn't moving.

The problem is, there's no telling which mage is casting for which side unless a spell hits, and with so many gathered in one room, there's not even any guessing who cast which spell. He and the other Templars immediately work on nullifying any mana gathered, sweeping corners of the room, but the mages are largely ignoring them all, bent more on slaughtering each other.

Irving flings fire, a roaring wall of it, straight for Uldred and the mages gathered near him.

Which is when the first abomination makes it appearance. Cullen can sense the build-up of mana, sharp as a knife and glittering over his tongue like frost, and then the mage's body changes. Cullen tries not to look as its face wrinkles and withers, its eyes deep-sunken in too-large sockets.

More important is the wizened hand, with its strangely long fingernails, that it flings out.

Given the wall of ice that rises in response and meets Irving's flame, Cullen assumes it must be a Despair abomination. He ducks and weaves through the mages, sword out, and slams an elbow into the wall.

What power he has against mages flares out, seeking, and the wall melts. Cullen is forward through the sloshy puddle, across slick floors, the greatsword flashing out as he brings it down in a diagonal cut.

He cleaves the Despair abomination's head from its shoulders and turns on Uldred, only to take someone's stone fist straight to the cuirass. It doesn't hurt him, but it knocks him back, into the wall.

His head slams into stone, and the world turns dizzying. Between the red throb behind him, and the way the world tilts and spins worse than a bad lyrium dream, he almost thinks he's about to throw up. The sounds that fill the Great Hall echo and bounce, and just make his head hurt worse, and don't make any sense at all.

Three more mages — all, he assumes, on Uldred's side — have become abominations. Rickon cuts one down, while Drass takes another. A fellow knight in a helmet takes down the third, then begins to herd the Formari away from the thick of the melee.

Cullen steps away from the wall, head clearing just enough to begin to understand what's happening around him.

And Greagoir's voice rings over the fight: "Templars, retreat to the first floor!"

But he's cut off, he realizes. He, Drass, and Rickon are all on the wrong side of a knot of furious mages. Lightning buzzes and snaps and shatters through the air, crackling from body to body. Rickon, thankfully, has the presence of mind to snuff it.

Cullen and Drass launch themselves forward. Both Cullen's greatsword and Drass's longsword cut through people. People Cullen knew, or thought he did; he shoves that thought ruthlessly aside. This is the reason Templars maintain their distance.

He cannot afford to hesitate now.

It's not until the last spell has been silenced and the mages are, to a one, all dead or kneeling on the flagstones, hands clasped over bowed heads, that Cullen can let himself think again.

But the great doors of the third floor slam closed, and Cullen hears the bar fall into place.

"Well, shit," says Drass.

Rickon agrees with a short but heartfelt, "Fuck."

Cullen pounds on the door, but there's no answer. When he presses his ear to it, he hears the shrieks of people being cut, the crackle of flame and the shattering snap of lightning.

"Can we bust the doors down?"

"And, what, let in maleficarum on the Knight-Commander's flank?" Rickon looks at him like he's an idiot. "No. We make our way higher up, see where the rebels have dragged the First Enchanter."

"Where they've _what_?" He can't hide his shock. What in the Maker's name did he miss while he was getting his bearings back?

"Uldred took the First Enchanter and some of the senior mages… away. Not sure where," Rickon says. "We need to find them. Get them loose if we can. Clear out this part of the Tower, then have that door down and regroup with the others."

With those words, he turns and strides away from the Great Hall. Cullen doesn't wait before following after him. It's Drass who tarries the longest and guards their flank.

The rest of the Third Floor is awful enough, with abominations and maleficarum hunting down the honest mages and turning on anything that moves. The Hunger abominations are the worst; they turn on mage and maleficar alike, and there are suspiciously sticky-looking red and brown stains on their fingers and mouths and chins.

And yet Cullen hews his way through them, somehow ending up on point.

The Templar Quarters aren't truly better. They've arrived after at least some of the fighting must have died down — quite literally. Bodies litter the floor and the defenders overturned no few bookshelves or dressers or weapon racks, trying to create concealment or barriers against spells or grasping hands.

Almost maddening, how easily he can track the spread of the carnage. Is it strange that he's focusing so intensely on what's happened while trying to avoid who it happened to?

They find one living, un-possessed Templar just past the entrance to the quarters. She's in the midst of beating in the head of a maleficar with a mace. At the clatter of their footsteps, she looks up, and Cullen recognizes Evelyn.

Evelyn doesn't loose her grasp on her weapon. Indeed, she stares warily at them for a few long moments. Cullen looks at the horror of what was once a living person, then back to Evelyn, and though he knows it is only just, he can't seem to find words.

The Harrowings, at least, were always merciful: he was ending the life of a demon, not a fellow human, and quickly, at one stroke.

Neither Rickon nor Drass seem able to say anything, either.

"You're yourselves, then?" Evelyn asks them. "Not thralls?"

"We're ourselves." Rickon sweeps forward, sheathing his daggers. "Have you seen the First Enchanter?"

Evelyn turns to stare at them. She considers this. Cullen watches as her eyes flick down in shame. "I saw maleficarum dragging him toward the Harrowing chamber." And couldn't save him, that shame adds.

"Then we subdue the maleficarum up here and get him out." Rickon offers Evelyn a hand up. She accepts, and he pulls her easily to her feet.

There's little enough conversation after that. Instead they clear their way through the Templar Quarters. There are few enough Templars remaining, and that thought sets Cullen ill at ease.

And then they stumble upon the largest group of maleficarum Cullen has seen yet. It isn't intentional on either side; Drass and Rickon catch the sound of mumbling on the far side of a door. When Cullen kicks it down, they find themselves faced with perhaps twelve mages, and four of them already have their knives out.

Cullen doesn't even get the time to make out faces, to identify foe or friend, before the world goes well and truly mad. He sees three separate splashes of red, then a fourth, a fifth, and behind him, Evelyn shrieks.

He half turns, which is a mistake, to find her shuddering like a ewe beset by horseflies. Before he can reach out for Evelyn, dispel whatever torments her, he hears the crackle of fire and flings himself to the side, even as Drass charges into the fray. He's lost sight of Rickon, and in wheeling, trying to find his comrades and get some sense of what in the Maker's name the maleficarum are doing, he damned near slips on a patch of ice that surely hadn't been there before.

Evelyn throws her head back and screams again, but this time, it's not pain. It's fury. She turns her head, and Cullen finally realizes exactly how Greagoir could so quickly know that the Initiate hadn't been a thrall. Where there had once been a person directing Evelyn's gaze, Cullen can see nothing: only flat emptiness, glazed over and hollowed out.

She doesn't bother reaching for her mace. Instead, she simply hurls herself forward, into the thick knot of mages or maleficarum.

Cullen is never sure of what happens after that. One of the maleficarum flings a spell, and it's one of the less pleasant Entropy workings, with all the force of blood magic behind it. The world goes — no, _he_ must have gone mad, the madness must be within him, even as the fear is upon him. All he can truly understand is that his vision has filled with horrors, and his heart pounds in his ears, even as his palms sweat and his mouth runs dry.

He wants to tear out his own eyes. He shuts them tight, but those misshapen grotesques are all still _there_. He knows they are. They're watching. Waiting for him to let his guard down. Waiting for him to —

Cullen lashes out with his sword, desperate to feel the edge bite into just one demon.

The world ceases.


	2. Chapter 2

fourteen.

Cullen wakes on the ground, with his sword in his hand. Three maleficarum crowd around him, blocking his view of the rest of the room.

His mouth tastes of blood, and he's not sure if he bit his tongue, or if something worse happened.

"Ser Cullen," says one of the maleficarum, a gray-eyed woman whose fingers and wrists drip red-brown. Her eyes have focused on some distant point, and he wonders what she's done. "If you would please come with us?"

Three blood mages, and neither Drass, nor Rickon, nor Evelyn anywhere in sight. They, too, must have been overpowered.

Cullen stands. He notes the blood on his greatsword, and wonders how it got there. What — or who — has he cut into and can't remember? There's a cold chill running through his veins, turning him light-headed, and he's at once both heart-sick and grateful that the blood mages are keeping him from seeing the rest of the room.

He only remembers fear and horrors, and looking back, he can see them for illusions. Whatever lay beneath those illusions, he cannot say. Doesn't want to know.

* * *

fifteen.

They herd him into the final room in the Templar quarters, the Harrowing's antechamber. There, four of them stand at cardinal points. He watches their eyes roll back, and can feel mana flood the room, making the air thick with promise of pain.

One of the maleficarum prods Cullen with his tiny knife. Cullen is tempted, so tempted, to turn around and headbutt the blood mage. Just bring his forehead down into the vile little man's nose with a good, hard crunch. See what that does for his concentration on magic.

And yet he daren't risk it. He's been able to resist their attempts to turn him into some poppet so far, but with so many of the Order brought to heel, and with so many blood mages in one room, it's safest to avoid their magic in his mind for as long as he can.

He stumbles forward, as silently instructed. A few other maleficarum bring in more Templars, whom they also prod and poke until they all cluster together. Drass and Rickon are among them, and Cullen takes no shame in crowding close to them.

"Where's Evelyn?" He asks between his teeth, quietly as he can.

Drass and Rickon look at each other, grim. Rickon opens his mouth to explain, but one of the maleficarum _not_ casting makes a buzzing noise to hush them, and raises his knife. Rickon closes his mouth, but Drass looks sullen.

And then the spell finishes, and the barrier goes up. It makes Cullen's entire body itch from the inside out, and he can see one of the Order nearest to the barrier actually begin to shake from exposure to so much mana. He can feel it as several of them reflexively try to Smite such a huge casting.

But the barrier remains.

And then one of the blood mages begins to incant something different, something new. The chant scratches at Cullen's eardrums, scrapes its way from the air straight inside his head. It's like having someone shove their fingers directly into his thoughts.

He can get a brief sense of what they're looking for by the things they linger on. 

Memories of Sens, staring out the northmost window, back when she was whole. A recollection of how fragile and slim her wrists are, of the delicate arch of her ankles as she sat on her bed and unlaced her boots. The way skin almost as dark as hers had glowed in the lamplight in the baths. A fall of straight dark hair, swinging as she moved up the stairs, catching the light of the torches.

His sister's face, as it had been when last he saw it: open and honest, clearly torn between being happy for him and sorry to see him go.

The night of his vigil. Himself, torn between peace and pride. Trying to find the calm, stern dignity appropriate to such a moment when really, he'd been either elated or about to sick up from wondering just how his life would change.

His vows, and the peace he found in them.

His vows, and every moment he's cursed them.

Cullen grits his teeth and tries to redirect his thoughts. He will not permit himself to be maneuvered in this fashion. He will not break.

Which is, of course, when he realizes that there is a woman kneeling on the outside of the barrier. Her dark hair has fallen loose from a careless bun, and her eyes are a strangely warm, deep green. 

He reels, pole-axed. "Sens? You were — you were swept away past the doors of the Great Hall. how did you get here?"

She darts a glance around, as if — as if afraid? No, that can't be. But her brand is gone, which surely means —

But Tranquility is permanent.

"Demon," he snarls. "I don't know which you are," though he can guess, "and I don't care what you offer. I reject you. I banish you."

He closes his eyes, and takes in a deep breath.

When he opens his eyes, he's standing on the Redcliffe docks. He can smell the tang of fish and lakewater, of the forge just twenty paces away, of the elfroot growing along the shore. He turns around in a circle, stares at the figures scurrying back and forth at the edge of his vision, moving through the town with purpose. And there, at the edge of the dock, waiting for him by the shore, stands Sens.

He hurries toward her, catches her by the elbow and turns her to face him. Her dark hair glistens in the light, and her eyes glint dully as she looks up. She has to tilt her head back ridiculously far to look him in the eye.

The sight of the brand makes him feel vaguely ill.

"I… shouldn't we be in the Tower?" He asks. "I could swear…" He can't recall a ship voyage to Redcliffe, can't recall Sens ever even expressing any desire to be outside. She can't really want things, after all, and life is easier among the Formari.

"I decided to leave," she says. It's the same usual bland, toneless voice she uses. She tilts her head slightly, as she often does when talking to him. After a moment, in a tone that's almost contemplative, she adds, "Thank you."

"I, you're welcome, of course. But I don't… quite recall what you're thanking me for...?" He watches, puzzled, as she walks away from him. Her robes cling in the waist and thigh, and his gaze drops to watch her hips sway as she moves. He swallows, mouth dry.

She tells him without turning: "For accompanying me."

Something about this doesn't add up, and yet he wants nothing more to than to follow along behind her. Wants to stare at the eerie grace with which she moves, wants to soak in her voice and —

And break the spirit of his vows for her. Maker, what was he thinking, choosing to come with her?

"Ser Cullen?" She asks, turning around again. Her face is the same blank it's been since the Rite, lips slightly parted.

The sight brings forth such ill, wrong, unethical thoughts in him that he actually startles himself. He's taken himself in hand before, has thought of her, has imagined her delicate fingers in place of his own, but he's certainly never imagined putting her on her knees and making her take him in her mouth. Never wondered if her eyes would flutter closed like a doll's.

Not before, anyway.

Cullen backs away from her. "We didn't come here. This isn't real. I, I reject your offer, demon. I banish you."

When he opens his eyes, he's back in the Tower, and Sens is standing before him. He can hear the other knights muttering — Rickon and Drass both are close enough he can almost make out their words — but he daren't take his eyes away from her. She carries a chopping knife, perhaps the same one she uses on herbs, but she's ripped the sleeves off her robes. She must have torn the robes' skirts, or perhaps it happened in her struggle to reach him.

The knife in her right hand is bloody, and her face is besmutted with red and brown.

"Cullen," she says, but her voice is wrong. Not only does it carry too much subtle emotion, but it doesn't even belong to her. It's pitched wrong, not musical enough. And then she says his name again, rolling it around in her mouth.

"Demon," Cullen hisses, and the woman opposite him, with her bloodied hands and her brand, throws her head back and laughs.

"No, not this time," she says. "I'm one of Uldred's people. Here to make you an offer."

"Wearing a face not your own?"

"So I'm playing with your mind a little." She rolls her shoulders in a shrug that distracts him a moment. He snaps his gaze back up to her face, and that makes her laugh again, a merry jangling sound. "Or, it would seem, I'm playing with your mind rather a lot. Are you at least enjoying the games?"

"No," he says.

"You know, you could take the demon's offer," the blood mage wearing Sens's face says. "You'll get your end of the bargain — a Desire demon always keeps her promises, if she promised pleasure."

"What joy in a lie?" He demands. "And how can, a, a dream of pleasure be worth my soul or my life?"

The blood mage remarks, cool and mocking, "How, indeed. Don't look to me for sympathy, Templar; I know where I've been watched. Far as I'm concerned, you become my pet, you yield yourself over to Want, or you rot in that prison."

"Then let me at least rot in peace," he tells her.

She shrugs again, then turns on her heel and walks away.

And leaves him, evidently, to Want's ungentle generosity. He closes his eyes as he feels a pair of arms wrap around him from behind. A mouth presses where his cheek meets his jaw, and then a smoky voice whispers every vile, unworthy thought he's ever had as if it's some benediction, lips touching his ear.

* * *

sixteen.

Drass breaks first. 

Cullen has just woken himself from another of Want's fever dreams. His entire body buzzes with imagined pleasure, and between the lingering memories of the vision and his reaction to it, his head might well be full of thick, white fog.

He shakes his head, as if he can clear it, and tries to look around. Tries to take stock. Their number has dwindled, he sees. He has no idea how they've left the barrier; he must have been in the throes of Want's visions. There's screaming from the Harrowing Chamber, the kind of long, low animal noises that make his gut twist in sympathetic horror, but Cullen tries to ignore it. There's nothing he can do from here.

He sees Drass stand and walk to the barrier. There's something jerky and uncoordinated about his movements, and his expression is absent, as if he's not seeing the world around him.

A sheen of purple, and the scent of blackberries and spices, and Drass walks out through the barrier. He reaches out, still moving like a marionette, and takes up his sword from where someone must have tossed it.

Cullen takes in a breath, and smells something else, muskier, salty, and flushes. He looks around again, at his fellows. Eyes have closed. No few of them kneel, as if they'd been praying. A few sit cross-legged. 

Rickon found the thought to draw a smaller dagger from within his gauntlet, but he stares off into the distance, unblinking, unmoving.

And then Want slithers up behind him. She whispers, hoarse and throaty in a way that sends shivers down his spine, "Were you not happy?"

"It was a lie," he snaps. "How could I be happy with a lie?"

The smell of blackberries turns overwhelming, and the world changes again.

* * *

seventeen.

How many times must he reject Want's offers? How many times must he banish her? 

Every time he surfaces, there are fewer and fewer fellow Templars trapped with him, but the screaming from the Harrowing Chamber goes on and on. He sees more than a few Templars succumb to the various madnesses the maleficarum offer — some flying into the same rage as Evelyn had, some following demons of desire, still others turning on anything near them, seeking to slake hunger and thirst in the flesh of the living.

Rickon helps him put down a man who'd fallen to a hunger demon, using the small dagger, while Cullen had restrained him with his bare hands. Cullen tries not to hear the hoarse laughter of the maleficar who had tormented the man into breaking, tries not even to look past the buzzing barrier. He tries not to think about the man's name, or his habits, or how he'd reigned over his side of the board at mealtimes with quick, cheeky smiles. 

Let him just be a nameless victim, an object half of pity and half of scorn for being too weak to resist. For being so weak he _broke_.

His blood coats Rickon's face and torso. Rickon stares at both Cullen and the victim for a long moment. His expression is flat, and there is no feeling, no real sense of presence, in his eyes. He might well not even be seeing them.

"Maker forgive us, for what we've had to do," Cullen says.

Rickon's eyes flick back to Cullen, and then something surfaces in his face. The amber of his eyes brightens for a moment, foggy but brilliant as leaded glass, and then Rickon's eyes dart to the dagger in his hand.

Cullen feels his brow furrow. "Rickon?"

"I thought you'd break first," Rickon tells him. "Before Evelyn or Drass. I thought you'd hand yourself over to the first demon smart enough to look like your spitfire. I thought you'd let yourself fall into some fantasy where she hadn't been made Tranquil, and decide to stay there."

Cullen doesn't even know what to say to that. This is truly the most surreal, absurd, awful situation he's ever been in, and he's stood ready at three failed Harrowings. He opens his mouth to reply, but all he has is silence.

Rickon's gaze turns again to the dagger. And then he shakes where he stands, teeth clicking together, every limb trembling. "I'm not sure if I'm sorry for it," he says, through teeth that chatter until he clenches his jaw. He pauses again. "But I hope Andraste and the Maker can forgive me for this."

He changes his grip on the dagger, and before Cullen can shove the victim's corpse aside and stop him, Rickon brings the blade up. Steel flashes, dull and weird in the barrier's light, and over the buzz of the cage, Cullen hears the slide of metal on skin.

Two quick, precise cuts, each angled to hit the arteries. Rickon raises his left hand by reflex, clapping against the gouge on the left side of his neck, but he brings the dagger up again and digs it deep into the right side of his throat, angling from under the ear to just under the chin.

The blood hits the body in Cullen's arms, but a few drops strike his face. He drops the victim and lunges forward, catching Rickon as he falls. But there's no stanching the wounds, no stopping the swift slide of _life_ from Rickon's veins.

Within moments, Rickon's eyelids droop, as if it's too difficult for him to hold them open, and then his eyes lose focus.

Cullen looks up, then, and sees a maleficar standing on the other side of the barrier. Flecks of brown have made their way to her neck, above her collar, and brown spackles her robes, as if she's carelessly brushed against bloody things. She looks in at them, impassive in the face of these two senseless deaths.

He lets Rickon down gently, carefully, and then reaches out two fingers to close Rickon's eyes, and then looks back up. Is this what you wanted? He wants to ask. Do you hate us so much, for trying to keep you safe?

The maleficar smiles.

* * *

eighteen.

The time crawls by. Cullen spends most of it resisting Want. She's slower to come back each time he banishes her, as if she's trying to decide whether he's worth the effort. Or perhaps whatever foul summoning brought her to the Tower is weakening.

When he recites the Chant, his voice is almost loud enough in his ears to block out the screams, the inhuman shrieking and the sounds of bones breaking and re-forming. The Chant is a comfort when the noises finally stop, filling in the hollow silence that falls over him.

He is still speaking the Chant when he hears the fighting. It ends quickly, and then booted footsteps make their way toward the antechamber.

Want has returned, then. Cullen makes note of this, then returns to the Canticle of Andraste.

Want uses not one face, but four, this time: three women and a man. 

Cullen almost recognizes the man who enters the room. He wears battered gray armor, with a blue-and-gray scale tabard, with the same light ease Templars wear their own heavy plate, and his hair is close-cropped in a way Cullen's seen mostly on Templar recruits. Cullen doesn't recognize the woman in the blue-and-gray light armor, though the griffon she and the armored man have on their breast plates seems familiar. Nor has he ever seen the second woman, a redhead in studded leathers.

The fourth figure is Senior Enchanter Wynne. Cullen watches her, wary, waiting for some sweet lie, but does not otherwise interrupt his recitation.

"A sane Templar," the woman in blue-and-gray remarks. A pause, as she considers him, and then asks, "Are you a prisoner here, ser?"

He does not immediately drop the Canticle. Instead, he keeps going, until he reaches a natural break in the rhythm.

When he is ready, he says, "I want nothing of you. If anything in you is human, then end this and leave me to die in peace."

The woman's eyebrows draw up in surprise. She casts a look at the man in plate, and he can see plain on her face that she thinks him mad. What does it matter? She isn't even real, just some other manifestation of some foolish, passing dream he must have had long ago.

"We mean you no harm," the redhead says, soothing. Her accent winds strange and sinuous, nasal, and he can only blink a moment as he tries to place it. It must be Orlesian, he guesses, but he's never actually met anyone from Orlais. "We are here to help the Circle, and all in it."

Can demons create things wholecloth? Use bits and pieces of a world unfamiliar to the mind they seek to corrupt?

He dares not risk it. He has kept his mind free of their influence, away from their petty grasping, for this long. He will not be undone by kind words in a voice he happens not to know.

"I won't listen to anything you say. You — you broke the others, but I will not. I will stay strong." He must stay strong, or else what were all these deaths for? He will not be some pitiable victim of maleficarum.

Cullen closes his eyes, dispels what foul magics he can that yet linger in the air. When he opens his eyes again, the four are still standing outside the barrier, looking in at him with concern.

"You are still here," he finds himself saying. "But I… that's always worked before."

"We're real," the woman in blue insists. "We're real, and we're here to help you."

He almost laughs. Maybe he does laugh; whatever noise his throat is making, it gets caught, and becomes something close to a sob. He looks back up at the woman, and explains himself: "This cage is Uldred's doing, or that of a maleficar with him. I will not be free until they are dead, and until I am free, you cannot help me."

"We are here to help all of the Tower," the redhead says. There's a reproving note in her voice, even as she holds out a skin of water and moves toward him. But Cullen knows better than to believe it could pass the barrier, and he cannot bear the thought of her near him. 

He flinches back.

Senior Enchanter Wynne loses patience. "Where are Irving and the other mages?"

"The Harrowing Chamber," he says, not understanding, at first. "But the sounds from there… Oh, Maker. Forgive us all."

At his words, the woman in blue nods. Her gaze travels to the stair and the door atop it.

Cullen asks her, "You know what you have to do, then? To help all of us here?"

"Kill Uldred, use this Litany, drag Irving back downstairs, and talk the Knight-Commander into opening the Tower again," says the man. The corner of his mouth curls up as he says it, and then he adds, "And find Ser Cullen. A Tranquil in the entrance hall traded us elfroot draughts for news of him."

Cullen closes his mouth on his planned rebuttal to the idea that the Tower can be re-opened. He stares at the man in plate, caught between trying to talk sense and caution into the other man, or between dismissing him as yet another of Want's lies.

He spits invective at the man for a moment, before turning on the thing wearing Senior Enchanter Wynne's face. "To think, I almost believed you. I would have, if you hadn't used my — my shameful _fascination_ with a Tranquil, of all things, against me."

The man in plate arches his eyebrows, then drawls to his companion, the blue-armored woman, "So, we found Ser Cullen, I take it."

"He's not what I was expecting," the woman replies. "But that Tranquil must have liked him for a reason."

"Tranquil don't like people," both Cullen and the armored man say, at once. The stranger looks at Cullen, eyes stretched in surprise, before he casts a guilty look in the direction of the supposed Senior Enchanter.

The woman in blue just shakes her head. "The Harrowing Chamber. That's up those stairs, is it?"

"It is," Senior Enchanter Wynne says. "Come. We must move quickly."

"You can't be serious. Those mages… they've been tainted by blood magic. You can't let them live!" If they're even real, and as they're in pursuit of their own agendas, they might be.

But the woman in blue has already headed for the stairs to his right. She flicks a gaze down at him, then seems to dismiss him.

"You speak from pain, not wisdom," Senior Enchanter Wynne says.

"Wisdom? How can it be wise to let maleficarum live?"

But Wynne and the others follow the woman in blue.

Cullen sinks back to the floor, with only his prison and the dead for company.

* * *

nineteen.

The barrier buzzes, makes the back of his tongue itch. His whole body aches with the need for lyrium, though his knees ache worst of all from spending two days on the flagstones. He's lightheaded and dizzy from despair, and exhaustion, and hunger. 

Still, he does not permit himself sleep, lest the maleficarum and their demons return. Instead, he recites Benedictions in the easy-to-follow plainspeak drilled into him by the monastery.

The sounds from the Harrowing Chamber grow still, and then turn to the noises of combat, rather than... whatever unholy thing had been happening up there before. Cullen continues with Benedictions and bows his head.

He keeps reciting, even as the barrier falls — taking with it some of the lyrium craving, though not all — and the Grey Wardens lead out the First Enchanter and a few surviving mages. He watches them all go, and cannot help the beginning burn of hatred. No, not hatred. They have spared maleficarum, he knows this from thoughts bled raw all the way down to the fire in his knees, but they have also saved him. So he does not hate them.

This is moral outrage, then.

He checks the Harrowing Chamber. A Pride demon lies dead or inactive on the floor there; abominations lie scattered around it. He takes in a deep breath, then slowly strips his right vambrace and drives the edges of his left gauntlet into the meat of his forearm. The pain is as real as the pleasure never was. He closes his eyes, breathes again, and then puts his vambrace back on. He turns on his heel, and then heads out.

He takes the shortest path through the Tower to the Entrance Hall. He prays that Sens and the other Tranquil, at least, made it that far. He encounters no abominations and is thankful for that. There are too many broken bodies, though.

The maleficarum turned on their fellow mages, evidently, or perhaps the abominations simply didn't discriminate.

He sees, once he reaches the Entrance Hall, that Sens had made it, and evidently saw no reason not to mix potions or enchant items while she waited for... Greagoir's decision, perhaps, or for this entire evil matter to blow over. An end, of some sort. One of the Grey Wardens — the man, the one who had openly pitied him — is speaking with her.

So she really did ask the Grey Wardens to bring her news of him. It's... good to know that wasn't some delusion. He may even need to apologize to the Grey Wardens for his harsh words.

"We must begin a sweep, search for survivors," Knight-Commander Greagoir is saying to the First Enchanter, but he's eying the gathered forces. Cullen casts his own gaze around the room, and notes no fewer than half a dozen men plainly strung out on lyrium. There will be no sweeps, to end the possible maleficarum or save survivors, for at least a few more hours. "And then..." He sighs.

"And then," the First Enchanter agrees.

And Cullen cannot stop or assuage the surge of betrayal. It passes quickly, snuffed in the face of renewed purpose, but it squeezes and twists and hurts inside while it's there.

"Knight-Commander," he says, and there is no hiding his horror. "You treat this as though it is over."

Knight-Commander Greagoir turns. His brows hook down as he considers Cullen. "Irving says the Tower is back under our control. I, for one, believe him."

Of course the First Enchanter would say that. Any maleficar would.

"Ser, it cannot possibly be over. Uldred tortured these mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations. We don't know how many of them have turned!"

Greagoir's brows arch. "And what would you have me do, then, if this isn't over?"

Cullen clenches his right hand into a fist. His gauntlet creaks with the strain. "We must Annul this Circle. We must wipe it clean of every mage, every hint of magic, and start anew."

"Why?" A quiet, musical voice asks. There's barely enough inflection to the word to mark it as a question, and Cullen would know her voice anywhere. 

He looks at Sens, who has stood and drifted forward, past the Grey Warden.

"Maleficarum and high-level abominations do not announce themselves visually until they are ready to strike," Sens says, even and toneless and sounding so utterly, horribly sane. "You were no more aware of their number or identities before this incident than you are now. Should the Circle have been Annulled then? When this Circle 'starts anew,' how will you be certain who is a maleficar and who is not?"

"I — they will be free of Uldred's influence," Cullen says. "I will be content with that."

"That is irrational," Sens tells him. She shifts her focus to Greagoir, gaze trailing lazily as she does so, and says, "He is spurred to this by strong emotion. I believe your logic developed enough that you will see that his argument is inherently flawed."

"Irrational!" Cullen snaps. "How can you call me irrational? Far better to be cautious than allow maleficarum to live in the Tower! Maker, Sens, if even one or two survive, they could start this all again!"

"Your reasoning is faulty and your argument is flawed. You are over emotional at this juncture, likely due to some trauma."

"Over emotional," he snaps, because apparently his horror and anger have hamstrung his mind's control over his mouth, "of course you would say that."

Sens blinks. She stares at him, considering, for a moment, and then she says, "I do not need to experience an emotional reaction to know you intended insult. But what you say is true: I am Tranquil. I do not judge situations based on emotion. I, and not you, am applying pure logic to this matter."

Maker, he truly is twelve kinds of cad. Of course she lacks emotion — he's the one who failed her, who never questioned Greagoir. And then he tossed her away, and now he insults her for her very nature, simply because she does not agree with him.

He looks to Greagoir, then back to Sens. He cannot shake the feeling that he is right about this, that his caution is warranted. And yet he knows Tranquil to be perfectly logical.

"You are the Knight-Commander here," he says, after a horrible moment where the words all stick in his mouth. His skin crawls at saying them, and yet he knows they are right. "I have made my recommendation."

"Magnanimous of you," Greagoir tells him. But his gaze lingers on Cullen in a way that is not entirely unsympathetic. "I've made my decision, but feel free to keep a close eye on them, if you must."


End file.
